


Forfend

by atlasmay



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Doomed Relationship, Established Relationship, F/M, One Shot, Possessive Draco Malfoy, Potions, Suspense, Tragic Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-13
Updated: 2018-01-13
Packaged: 2019-03-04 12:09:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13364406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atlasmay/pseuds/atlasmay
Summary: She barely breathes as light floods the hallway. A shadow passes over the crack in the door. It is getting closer, she realizes. He is almost upon her.





	Forfend

**Author's Note:**

> For The Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition: Training Camp; Round Two—Not Your Average OTP  
> Portsmouth Plovers—Seeker

“There’s just something _off_ about him, ‘Mione.”

Hermione Granger stands rigidly in the bricked-in courtyard of her new university, one foot tapping impatiently against the neatly lain cobblestone. Her left-hand clutches at her scalding cappuccino. The other is shoved neatly into the pocket of her winter jacket.

“Oh please, Harry—not this again.”

Her companion scuffs his worn boot against the crumbling stones where the courtyard ends. He runs his hand, trembling from the cold, through his wild black hair and adjusts his glasses on the bridge of his nose.

“Please, Hermione, just hear me out!”

A gust of frigid air blows through the courtyard and Hermione shrinks into her coat. She has no desire to discuss her new relationship with Harry—quite the opposite, actually. She takes a measured sip from her industry-standard brown cup, savouring the warmth and energy she feels spreading through her body like wildfire.

“I’m sorry Harry,” she says sincerely. “I’m going to be late for toxicology.”

* * *

  
Hermione jogs into the weathered building, letting a gust of wind creep in behind her. She makes it into the lecture hall, just before the professor starts speaking, and subtly scans the theatre-style seats for that familiar shock of white-blond hair.

She spots him almost right away. If his hair is not enough of a giveaway, his stiff posture ensures that he is far taller than his relaxed, and often slouched, peers. His expensive bookbag is on the adjacent seat. Hermione joins him.

“Hello, love,” he greets amiably with a quick peck on her cheek.

“Draco,” she returns, feeling the familiar tingle she has long since equated with his presence return.

“You brought me coffee,” he simpers coyly. “How sweet.” He makes a grab for it, but Hermione just as quickly snatches it away.

“No, Draco,” she sighs, one eyebrow peaked. “I bought myself a coffee. Besides, you don’t drink coffee from the campus’ café.” She ends on an infuriatingly smug note.

Draco shudders. “And with good reason. The stuff tastes absolutely horrid. I can’t believe you drink it.”

Hermione pouts and Draco traces meaningless patterns on the back of her hand. “Not all of us can afford finely ground coffee imported from Germany.”

Draco frowns. “France, love.”

“Same difference,” Hermione counters, knowing how riled up he gets when she purposely feigns indifference. She works her faded green messenger bag open with one hand and begins pulling out her notes and a pen.

She senses glares from the students around her, the hairs on the back of her neck pricking up in response. She flushes deeply when she realizes that she has failed in her attempts to minimize the volume of their conversation. Draco’s insistent fingers under her chin redirect her attention.

“You’re adorable when you’re flustered, Hermione,” he whispers into her ear. And she can almost feel his smirk.

* * *

  
When Ginny corners her one week later, Hermione is not surprised.

It’s Thursday, and she has the afternoon off. Harry is well aware of this. So, when Hermione runs into his girlfriend after her last morning class, Hermione greets her cordially, sarcastic surprise dripping from her every word.

“Ginny, what a coincidence.”

The redhead has the decency to blush and glance at the thin layer of fresh snow coating the path shamefully, at least.

“Hello, Hermione,” she grins sheepishly, meeting her expectant gaze. “How have you been?”

Hermione shoves her hands deep into her pockets, feeling her cheeks numbing from the sting of the wind.

“You and I both know that you didn’t meet me here to make small talk,” she says, growing more annoyed with the entire situation as the frigid air sends a chill through her. Too caught up in her thoughts—it’s a direct violation of my privacy, I never asked them to critique my boyfriend and I sure as hell don’t need their permission—she almost misses Ginny’s hesitant and thinly veiled question.

“…my place for a sleepover? God, it’s been ages since our last girl’s night, Hermione.”

Hermione glances up at Ginny, her hair tumbling back from her face.

“Your place?” she repeats sceptically. “With Harry?”

Ginny laughs. “I’ll get rid of him, Hermione, just you, me and Luna.”

Hermione smiles. “I’d like that very much.”

* * *

  
Hermione saunters into Celeste, an upscale restaurant in the heart of London, with Draco at her side. His arm winds around her waist, drawing her snugly into his side.

Hermione had protested, citing that it was impractical to travel so far just for dinner, but Draco, reminding her that they had stayed in last week, had won out.

Their host leads them to a table in the far corner and, with just one glance at Draco’s smirking face, knows that it is easily the best table in the restaurant. Draco pulls her chair out for her, and Hermione laughs.

“I never took you for the chivalrous type,” she teases. Draco only shrugs.

“Maybe I’m looking to get lucky tonight,” he says without missing a beat and with a remarkably straight face.

Hermione flushes. “Will you—oh, just…” She glares at him as he begins to chuckle. “We’re in public, you.”

Their conversation lulls as the waiter arrives to take their orders. Hermione, overwhelmed by the French words spread through the menu, lets Draco order for her. She scowls as she belatedly realizes his intentions.

The waiter returns minutes later with a bottle of wine and two glasses. He pours a minute amount in each—far less than what Hermione would have drank at home—but leaves the bottle.

Hermione looks up from admiring the fine quality of the wine, the tablecloth, the silverware, everything really, and finds Draco staring intently at her.

“You’re staring,” she informs him.

“I know,” he replies lightly, but his eyes hold an unfamiliar intensity.

Hermione opens her mouth to comment, but is cut off.

“My parents want to meet you.”

Hermione peaks one brow. “Alright?” she says, not understanding why he is making such a big deal about it. Draco releases a breath.

“Great,” he smiles. “You’ll come with me back to the manor this Friday.”

Hermione returns the smile until a thought strikes her. “This Friday doesn’t work,” she hums apologetically. “I’m having a girl’s night with Gin.”

Draco frowns and Hermione briefly marvels at how quickly he can change into a whole different person.

“So, cancel. Reschedule. Don’t you think meeting my parents is more important that some girl’s night?” he asks snidely.

“I’m really sorry, Draco,” she says, strumming her fingers against the polished fork.

“You’ve cancelled on her before,” he reminds her.

A pause.

“This is different.”

“No, it isn’t. Just cancel on her and come with me to the manor.”

Hermione frowns. He could get so difficult when he didn’t get his way. Draco picks up on her subtle shift and exploits it.

“They’re giving you trouble again,” he snarls. “About me. Aren’t they, Hermione? Aren’t they?”

Hermione sighs, squeezing her eyes shut. “you know how Harry is—”

“Potter,” he sniffs. “I should have known Potter was behind all of this. Can’t you see, Hermione? He’s trying to keep us apart. He made the little she-weasel invite you to her girl’s night.”

Hermione shakes her head. “It’s not like that, Draco, they’re not like that. Harry would never—”

“Like he hasn’t before?” he demands, and an ugly sneer curls his lip. “Can’t you see, Hermione?” he repeats, pleading to her sympathy. “He’s just trying to keep us apart.”

Hermione sighs, resolve broken.

“Give me your phone,” he demands, voice stoic.

“Wha—no!” she says, head snapping up to meet his steady gaze.

“Give me your phone, Hermione,” he repeats, firmly, with one hand outstretched. “I’m only doing what you’re too considerate to do.”

Hermione bites her lip in frustration. She really would rather meet Draco’s parents… Ginny would forgive her, especially if it was as Draco says.

“Okay,” she relents, handing over her phone. “I’ll meet your parents.”

Draco takes her phone and taps out a short message. “Something came up, will have to reschedule,” he read.

Hermione sighs, shoulders lowering with a shudder.

“I love you,” he says softly.

* * *

  
She’s cornered by Harry and Ginny the next day.

“Hermione, if you’re in trouble, we can help you,” Harry begins, forgoing the preamble.

“You feel trapped, Hermione. Like you have no choice but to continue the way things already are. Let us help you!” Ginny pleads.

Hermione quickly deduces that they have realized that the text wasn’t from her. She is far more enthusiastic when she texts her friends, after all, and would never send anything without a greeting.

Still, Hermione feels her cheeks flushing from both the cold and her rising temper.

“I mean, look at you Hermione!” Harry all but cries. “You’re acting so—like him! The old Hermione would never blow her friends off for her boyfriend, let alone let him dictate her life!”

Hermione bristles. Too far.

“Stop it, Harry!” she says harshly, voice carrying over the wind. “Stop acting like you know me, like you’ve ever known me! All I asked was that you give Draco a chance. He’s changed, you know, since we were children. He’s grown up, left his prejudices behind—which is more than I can say for you.”

Ginny steps in, face glowing red. “Leave him alone, Hermione. He’s just looking out for you.”

“You!” she screams, too deep to rein in her temper. “You can’t say anything! You never had my best interests at heart anyway.” She laughs. It is brief and cruel, and she marvels at how alike to Draco’s it has become.

“The nerve of the two of you, confronting me about my life choices, telling me that I’m letting Draco control my life. That’s rich, Harry, coming from you. I know you made Ginny invite me to her stupid sleepover. Look, whatever you guys came here to say, I’ve heard enough of already. Goodbye.”

She whirls on her heel and leaves. Harry reaches out to her, numbly, and Ginny lays a hand on his shoulder.

Neither sees the tear fall from Hermione’s eye.

* * *

  
The drive to the manor is long and Hermione nearly rejoices when a black gate looms into view. Draco chuckles at her enthusiasm.

Inside, a blundering servant gingerly informs Draco that his parents are out and will return later that evening. Draco raises a hand to dismiss him, and Hermione notices the way the long-eared servant flinches away at the sudden movement.

Later, sometime during the grand tour, she asks him about it.

“Draco, your parents don’t _hit_ their servants, do they?”

Draco stops, turning around slowly to face her. “Of course not,” he replies blankly, raising an eyebrow. “What would make you ask that?”

She nearly tells him about the rumours Harry has been telling her for months, but one glance at his scowl affirms that he already knows the answer.

They finish the tour in silence.

* * *

  
Draco’s parents are…exactly what she expected.

Lucius Malfoy is a proud, if somewhat arrogant, man, whose dark sense of humour reminds her painfully of Draco. Narcissa Malfoy is a regal and stunning woman, who Hermione immediately perceives as vain yet immensely caring.

Dinner passes, fairly uneventful, peppered with pleasantries and questions about her studies.

After dessert, the family retires into the lounge. Draco wraps a steady arm around her shoulder, wordlessly informing her of his parent’s approval.

They invite her to spend the night.

She accepts.

* * *

  
Hermione wakes suddenly, and a glance at the digital clock on Draco’s bedside table tells her that the time is 3:08am. Her eyebrows furrow as she wonders what woke her up. A glance to her right reveals that Draco is missing.

She assumes that he is in the washroom, and snuggles back into his bed. Minutes pass, however, and Hermione instinctively smooths her hand over his side of the bed. It is cold.

She darts out of bed, propelled by some external force. She creeps to the door and peaks her head out into the hallway. It is empty.

She pads along the corridor, the cold seeping into the balls of her feet. She keeps one hand on the wall to steady and guide herself. Eventually, just as she begins to realize she is lost, she hears voices.

Following the sounds, she stills as she recognizes Draco’s smooth tones. He sounds furious.

She reaches the door and notices that it is cracked open. A sliver of light escapes the room and she peers in intently. She recognizes it as an office. Draco and his father are standing in front of a table, blocking its contents from her view.

“I already told you,” Lucius’ voice is barely a hiss. “There’s nothing on him. He’s practically a saint.”

“And the girl?” Draco’s voice replies.

“Nothing on her, either. At best, I could get her removed from the Harpies.”

“That’s not good enough.”

Draco sounds furious, Hermione belatedly realizes. She hears his ragged breaths from the doorway, amidst the small clinking noises of bottles and the scraping sound of a spoon against glass.

“Are you certain you want to do this, Draco?”

A significant pause.

“It’s the only way. I can’t let them take her.”

Very suddenly, Lucius whirls around. Hermione ducks her head out of range of the sliver of light.

“What is it, father?”

“I thought I heard something…”

Hermione realizes with a sharp pierce of dread that his voice is getting closer. Timing her muffled footsteps with his, she slides into the adjacent room which, luckily, is a servant’s closet and not Lucius’ bedroom.

She barely breathes as light floods the hallway. A shadow passes over the crack in the door. It is getting closer, she realizes. He is almost upon her.

A sharp crash interrupts her measured breathing and she stifles a gasp with her hands. There is cursing from within.

“Father, tell me you have more blue cohosh stored somewhere.”

The footsteps recede. “In the cellar. Come along, Draco, I’ll show you.”

Two shadows pass by the door and Hermione stills, pressing herself into the wall. She waits until she can no longer hear them and counts to twenty before soundlessly exiting the closet.

She is poised to dart back to Draco’s room when something freezes her in her tracks. She slowly spins on her heel, until she is facing the darkened office. Something about their conversation isn’t sitting well with her sleep addled brain.

She pushes the door to the office open. A glass bowl and its nefarious contents are simmering gently over a small flame. A handful of bottles surround the setup, some containing whole flowers, others boasting opaque solutions.

Hermione gets close enough to read the twisted, peeling labels.

_Rosary pea. White snakeroot. Oleander._

She is senselessly transported to her last lesson in toxicology, when Draco had brought her breakfast from his favourite café downtown. Her eyes narrow as she struggles to recall the significance of that lesson.

She remembers.

Hermione seizes up as a disturbingly cool shiver passes over her. Something clicks in her mind as she glances purposefully at the seemingly innocuous mixture bubbling happily over the flame.

“It’s _poison_ ,” she hisses.

Backing out of the room, Hermione sprints back to Draco’s chambers, uncaring of the thudding of her bare feet and the whooshing of her breath. She arrives, clutching the wooden frame of the door for support.

She rips through the room like a madwoman, grasping at her clothes and shoving them into her travel bag. Almost as an afterthought, she grabs Draco’s keys from his bedside table.

She hurries down the hallways and the grand stairs, tripping over her own feet in her panic. Halfway down, she notices a silhouette approaching from the study. She quickens her pace. Draco rounds the corner as she trips over the last step, falling flat onto her face.

He rushes to her side. His hands are gentle, pulling her from the floor. He smooths his hand over her cheek, brushing away tears Hermione hadn’t noticed had fallen.

“What’s the matter, love?” he asks, and his voice is caring and gentle and oh so wrong. “Why are you crying? Are you hurt?”

Hermione struggles in his arms. His gaze falls to her bag, his keys in her hand. His expression changes instantly as his eyes become frighteningly blank.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

His voice is like ice, crawling down her spine.

Hermione fights, wrenching her arm from his bruising grip. She kicks his shins, pummels his chest, claws at his hands. She has to get away. _She has to warn Harry._

She flails blindly, and her left hand finds purchase. The key she is clutching digs into her shoulder and he hisses, distracted. Hermione runs faster than she ever has before.

Scrambling blindly through the door, she does not stop until she is in the car. A glance in her rear-view mirror reveals Draco sprinting towards her. She floors it.

She is passing through the manor’s blessedly open gates when she risks another glance. He has stopped running, but his furious expression tells her that this is far from over.

Her hands tighten around the steering wheel.

She has to warn Harry.

**Author's Note:**

> I love dramione, but I love writing them tragically, more.


End file.
